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  ‘A horrible little man, Biarchus,’ growled Crispus, fully aware that any other response would land him in even greater trouble than he was in already. This would almost certainly include being on a charge for disobeying the order to wear helmets.

  ‘Listen up, Pedes; here’s what we do. Once back at base, you will put in a requisition for two helmets, chargeable against your pay.’

  ‘But — that’s not fair, Biarchus! I only lost one.’

  ‘So you did, soldier. So you did,’ purred the other. He went on, with irrefutable military logic, ‘You draw a helmet from the stores to replace the one you lost, see. Then you pay for another to replace the one from the stores. Got it?’ He turned to the others. ‘Right lads, show’s over. Let’s be having you. Into line. Forward, march!’

  One summer Sunday, when Uprauda was approaching his fourteenth birthday, two of his companions — named Atawulf and Wamba — sought him out; both were bursting with excitement, clearly over some news or secret they couldn’t wait to divulge. (Despite never putting himself forward, Uprauda’s imposing physique and something about his air of calm self-possession, had led him to be chosen as their leader by boys his own age in Tauresium. Though invariably the planner and organizer of youthful escapades, strangely, Uprauda was never the one to be caught or to incur the blame whenever such activities miscarried.)

  ‘Hey Raudie, you won’t believe what we’ve found!’ exclaimed Atawulf, the bigger of the tow-headed pair. ‘It’s a helmet — a real soldier’s helmet. Only trouble is, it’s stuck halfway up a cliff.’

  Uprauda smiled. ‘Lead on, then,’ he invited, sparing the two from having to plead with him to accompany them.

  It being a Sunday, when only essential tasks such as milking (which anyway was girls’ and women’s work) were carried out, the boys were free until supper-time. Keeping a lookout for wild animals, and also Sarmatian bandits, bands of whom had recently been sighted in the vicinity, the trio set out along woodland trails. There was in fact little risk. Hunted for centuries by gangs of professional venatores to supply the Roman Games, large animals such as bear, lynx, elk, and bison had been driven to the verge of extinction, and had only recently begun to make a comeback following the collapse of the Western Empire twenty years before. As for Sarmatians, they were after cattle, goods, and specie, not half-grown youngsters. And even if they were attacked, like all Dardanian boys who had grown up minding livestock, the three were expert slingers, able to give a good account of themselves. A blow on the snout from a round river-pebble delivered with terrific force was usually enough to deter even the most aggressive assailant.

  The boys pushed on through dense stands of spruce, oak, and beech, some of the trees rising to a prodigious height. After a mile or so, they emerged onto a flower-stippled meadow fringing a wide but shallow stream. Beyond the far bank towered a cliff of whitish rock, mottled with dark green where vegetation had taken root in cracks and ledges.

  ‘There she is, Raudie,’ proudly announced Atawulf, pointing to a winking point of light high up on the cliff-face.

  After wading through the stream, they approached the base of the cliff from where they were afforded a clearer view of the object in question, which was wedged in the upper branches of a bush. Surmounted by a scarlet horsehair crest, and complete with brow reinforcement, cheek-pieces, and neck-guard, the helmet — fashioned of bronze — glittered like gold in the strong noonday sunshine. (Presumably it had been dropped by a careless soldier from the roadway far above, Uprauda thought.) A rare prize indeed, one that would make them the envy of all the other boys in Tauresium — if it could be recovered. And that would not be easy, realized Uprauda, staring at that beetling precipice, the ascent of which must surely call for nerves of steel and practised skill.

  ‘Let me try, Raudie,’ entreated Atawulf. ‘I’m a good climber.’

  Uprauda hesitated. Atawulf indeed had an unrivalled reputation for scaling heights. Scarcely a tree of any size around Tauresium had not been climbed by ‘Spiderboy’, as had (inevitably) the baptistery of the local church, and the ramparts of a nearby abandoned Roman fortress. Nevertheless, any attempt to scale the cliff could prove suicidally risky, Uprauda felt: definitely not something he himself would care to try.

  But still. . In his imagination, Uprauda saw himself (along with Atawulf and Wamba) returning to the village in triumph with the trophy, the focus of excited admiration on the part of his peers. To be the owner of such a glorious find (for his two fellow adventurers would, he knew, insist on presenting the helmet to him) would confer enormous status. Such a helmet Perseus might have worn when he slew the Gorgon, he fantasized, or Alexander when he set out to conquer Asia. (From his earliest years, an ancient local of Hellenic descent had told him stirring tales from Greek and Roman legend and history: of Jason and the Argonauts, the ten-year war of Troy, Horatius who held the bridge against an army, Leonidas and his valiant Three Hundred, of Alexander, of Caesar and of Spartacus’ doomed heroic struggle against the might of Rome. Such stories had aroused in him a vague but powerful longing to achieve great things, beyond the stifling restrictions of a backwoods village life.)

  ‘All right, Wulfie,’ he heard himself say, ‘give it a go. But come back down if it gets too dangerous.’

  ‘Thanks, Raudie — I’ll get that helmet; you’ll see.’ Atawulf cast Uprauda a grateful look. Far more important than retrieving the thing itself was the fact that in doing so he would earn Raudie’s approval. He scanned the cliff, looking for possible routes to his objective. What at first glance seemed a sheer rock face, so smooth as to be unclimbable, on closer inspection revealed that it was textured by tiny cracks and wrinkles — just sufficient to afford purchase. Higher up, a long fissure or ‘chimney’ led up to a pitch not far below the ledge where grew the bush in which the helmet was lodged. ‘Es geht,’ he told himself — it could be done.

  Combining caution with speed, for he dared not trust any of those minute finger- and toe-holds to support his weight for long, Atawulf began to climb. Establishing a rhythm, he moved upwards steadily and with increasing confidence, seeming almost to flow over the rock as he ascended, displaying all the grace and assurance of the born climber. Arriving at the base of the chimney, he wedged himself in and proceeded to push himself up by alternating thrusts of back and feet against the opposite walls.

  All went well until, to his dismay, he encountered an obstacle which he had failed to notice when surveying the route from below. The upper part of the chimney was blocked by a chockstone! Peering upwards, he could see light between the chockstone and the back of the chimney. He tried to squeeze through the gap, but was forced to give up after the third attempt; it was just too narrow. Which left him with but one alternative: he would have to climb up and over the outside of the chockstone — a difficult and probably dangerous challenge. For the huge boulder projected proud of the cliff face, its bulging contours presenting Atawulf with the problem of having to surmount an overhang. Would the chockstone’s upper surface, which the bulge prevented him from seeing, provide holds? If it didn’t. .

  Well, there was only one way to find out, he thought, grimly. Reaching up, his groping hands encountered cracks and roughnesses — enough to provide a grip. Face against the rock, he began to haul himself up, holding himself to the chockstone partly by hand- and foot-holds, partly by the friction of his tunic against the rough stone. Now his eyes were almost level with the outermost bulge of the boulder. This was the moment when he must commit — or abandon the climb. But to disappoint Raudie, and return to Tauresium empty-handed? That was unthinkable. Firmly, he pushed the temptation to give up to the back of his mind.

  His scrabbling left hand found a knob of rock, providing a secure anchor. Letting go his hold with his right hand, Atawulf groped upwards — above the bulge. There was only smooth stone. Desperately, he moved his hand to right and left to the limit of his reach; still no hold. He began to retract his right hand — and made an appalling discovery. He could not brin
g it down again without losing his balance! Fighting panic, he froze against the boulder.

  ‘Wulfie’s stuck!’ Wamba cried, pointing to where, high above them, Atawulf’s immobile form was spreadeagled against the cliff. He turned a worried face to Uprauda. ‘What are we going to do, Raudie?’

  Uprauda made to answer, found he could not think; his brain seemed paralyzed. The moments crept past. Faint with distance, a cry for help floated down from above.

  ‘Raudie?’ Wamba’s voice now held a note of desperation.

  Uprauda’s mind suddenly seemed to unblock itself. He must form a plan — and quickly. He studied the cliff. Not far above Atawulf’s position, a ledge (the same whence sprouted the bush supporting the helmet) ran along the cliff face. If he or Wamba could somehow reach that ledge and lower an improvized line to Atawulf. . One look at Wamba’s ashen face and trembling lip told Uprauda that he, not the other, would have to meet the challenge. The prospect was terrifying. Uprauda was no cragsman. Any attempt to scale the cliff in the stretch that he could see was out of the question; it was far too steep — a recipe for disaster. He would have to move along its base and hope to find a point at which the incline sloped sufficiently for him to climb it — assuming that the ledge above extended that far.

  ‘Give me your belt and sling,’ he told Wamba. ‘Bring men with ropes from the village. Hurry!’

  ‘Try to hold on,’ Uprauda shouted up as Wamba set off at a run. ‘Help’s on its way; I’ll try to reach you from above.’ It was unlikely that Atawulf could make out his actual words, but just to be able to hear him call would provide some reassurance. But for how long could Atawulf maintain his precarious hold?

  After running at his top speed for perhaps a quarter of a mile, Uprauda noticed that the cliff face was beginning to slope back. Within a further hundred yards, to his huge relief, the angle had lessened to the extent that grass grew on what had now become no more than a steep incline — mercifully looking as though it needed no special mountaineering skills to climb. While regaining his breath, Uprauda tied his own sling to Wamba’s then joined them to both their belts secured end to end. Now he had a stout line, hopefully of sufficient length and strength to reach Atawulf from the ledge (which still ran above the point now reached by Uprauda), and help him to safety.

  A punishing scramble took Uprauda to the ledge — a wide shelf of rock along which he was able to walk in perfect security. Now, in the distance ahead, he could see the bush with that wretched helmet shining like a beacon in the sun. And there, only yards below it, was Atawulf, clinging to a huge boulder projecting from a fissure in the cliff. A tide of euphoria swept over Uprauda. He shouted, to let the other know he was coming, heard an answering cry — then stopped, his elation draining away.

  Directly in front of him, the shelf ended suddenly — continuing a short distance further on. Between the two sections was a gap no more than three feet wide, bridgeable by a single bold stride. Uprauda stared at the yawning drop beneath the breach, and shrank against the cliff in terror. With palms sweating and mouth dry with fear, he approached the Bad Step — only to hesitate, then stop, on the very lip. He told himself that there was no risk, that at ground level he could perform such a trifling feat without a second thought. But it was no good; after making several aborted attempts, he knew he could not do it.

  He tried to shut his ears to Atawulf’s calls — at first of hope, finally of despair. At last there came the terrible moment when he saw his friend, unable any longer to maintain his hold, begin to slip. Then, with a cry of terror the boy fell, his body twisting and tumbling as it plunged into the void. .

  In grim silence, the little procession carrying Atawulf’s broken body on a makeshift litter returned to Tauresium. After the grieving and the funeral would come a reckoning. But no direct blame would be laid upon Uprauda for what, after all, had resulted from a collective enterprise. According to his statement, he had tried to save Atawulf, who had fallen before he could be reached. Which was, insofar as it went, a not untrue account, merely an incomplete one. In Uprauda’s dreams however, the helmet often reappeared — both a symbol of ambition, and a reminder of his cowardice.

  In the branches of a bush growing from a cliff, a pair of nesting falcons made a fortunate discovery: a round hollow object, ideal for their home. It even sprouted a ridge of hair — perfect material with which, along with moss, to line their new abode. As, over the years, their dwelling changed in colour from gleaming gold to bluish green, it witnessed the fledging of many generations of falcon chicks.

  * Arianism: the form of Christianity adopted by Germans; it differed from Orthodox Catholicism in denying the Divinity of Christ.

  ** Born 31 August in the year of the consuls Trocondus and Severinus. (i.e. 482; see Notes.)

  * A play on the names Uprauda Ystock. As Gibbon shrewdly observed, ‘The names. .are Gothic and almost English’ (my italics) — evidence that Germanic tongues have a common root.

  PART II

  EMPEROR-IN-WAITING

  AD 500-527

  TWO

  He who has lost honour, can lose nothing more

  Publilius Syrus, Sententiae, c. 50 BC

  ‘. . so in conclusion,’ pronounced Olympius, holder of the Chair of Law at Constantinople University, ‘our judge, having heard all the evidence for the defence and for the prosecution, must make his judgement. How is he to do this?’ Inviting a response, his gaze swept round the crowded tiers.

  ‘The Law of Citations would require him to consult the findings of the jurisconsults* in similar cases, and follow the verdict of the majority,’ eventually suggested an intense-looking youth.

  Olympius nodded approvingly. ‘Correct — as far as it goes. But let us speculate the following: Gaius and Papinian pronounce a guilty verdict, Ulpian and Paulus one of innocence, with Modestinus abstaining. A tie, in other words. What then?’

  The low buzz of speculation that followed, accompanied by shrugs and head-shaking as students conferred, gradually petered out. Then the silence was broken by a tall young man with calm grey eyes. ‘Papinian would have the casting vote, Magister. The judge would be compelled to give a guilty verdict.’

  ‘Well done, young Petrus!’ enthused the other. ‘You’ve been reading up your Responses, I see.’ Once again, his eyes swivelled round the benches. ‘As should the rest of you,’ he added, with mock severity. The doctor swept up his scrolls and codices. ‘Next time, we shall examine what Trebatius terms the Equality of Crime. For example: he who takes a handful of grain from a sack of corn is just as guilty as he who steals the entire contents.’ This last statement was delivered in a spray of spittle, a peculiarity which had earned Olympius the soubriquet, Aspergillum — the Holy Water-Sprinkler — and was the reason why the two front rows of the lecture hall were always empty for his sessions.

  Chatting noisily, the class dispersed via the main entrance, Olympius departing through a small door behind the rostrum.

  ‘Any budding Ciceros in this year’s class?’ enquired Demetrius of Olympius. The two old friends were strolling in one of the shady colonnades in the university precincts. Demetrius — once a humble grammaticus teaching sons of the aristocracy in the Palace School — had risen, through sheer drive and talent, to occupy the university’s Chair of Rhetoric.

  Olympius shook his head. ‘No such luck, I fear. You know how it is with younger sons — the Army, the Law, the Civil Service; at a pinch, the Church. Hardly calculated to inspire a sense of vocation.’ He paused, then added thoughtfully. ‘But I’m forgetting; there is a student who shows exceptional promise. One Petrus Sabbatius, a truly remarkable young man. Arrived in the capital from some God-forsaken provincial backwater, speaking hardly any Greek. Then, three years later, on leaving the Palace School as its top scholar, enrolls at university. Quite the most ambitious student I’ve ever had to deal with. Hungry for success — to a degree that’s almost frightening. Not in the least pushy or arrogant, though. Just quietly single-minded.’

&n
bsp; ‘Sounds too good to be true. I can’t imagine that being so brilliant makes him liked, though.’

  ‘There you’d be wrong. He is popular with most of his fellow students; he’s gathered quite a following, in fact, who seem to hang on his every word. Plenty of female admirers too. Hardly surprising; he’s looks to die for — like an Apollo by Praxiteles. But they’re wasting their time where he’s concerned.’

  ‘You’re suggesting he may have the Greek vice — as in Plato’s Symposium?’

  Olympius laughed. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just that he’s too focussed and driven to have any time for romantic distractions. Now, keep this to yourself; despite resembling your archetypal Greek god, young Petrus doesn’t have a drop of Hellenic blood in his veins. I have it from a friend at court that he’s a Goth. Nephew of General Rodericus, Commander of the Imperial Guard.’

  ‘Well, if he hopes to make his mark, he’s going to need all that determination you say he possesses. As we know, being German is a massive handicap to a career inside the Empire.’ Demetrius’ expression softened. ‘I taught Theoderic, you know. My star pupil at the Palace School when, as Crown Prince of the Ostrogoths, he was a hostage here in the capital. He’s doing well for himself — now. King of Italy and vicegerent of Emperor Anastasius. But getting where he is today — that was a titanic struggle that would have crushed a lesser man. It’s a fact of life: to get anywhere, a German has to show he’s at least twice as good as a Roman. We don’t discriminate against other races. Why, we’ve had emperors who were Spaniards, Gauls, Africans, Illyrians, even an Arab. But never a German. “Discuss” — as one might say to one’s students.’

  ‘Not so surprising when you think about it,’ observed Olympius. ‘Caledonians apart, the Germans were the only people in Europe that Rome never succeeded in conquering. And in the end, it was those same Germans who defeated Rome. West Rome, that is. Romans — West and East, find that hard to forgive. However, despite inheriting his people’s legacy of fear and hate, I’d be surprised if our young friend Petrus doesn’t go on to distinguish himself. And sooner rather than later, would be my guess.’